


The Ones Who Sing At Night

by CalamityCain



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Music Store, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Crying, First Kiss, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Musicians, Mutual Pining, Relationship Issues, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25464793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: Before they founded the beginnings of an explosive rock band, they first had to collide, then fall apart, then collide again.(A prequel to 'Disaster Superstars')
Relationships: Jesus Christ/Judas Iscariot
Comments: 41
Kudos: 8





	1. A Vision Haloed In Neon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bachhukali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bachhukali/gifts), [Saffiaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saffiaan/gifts).



> A PREQUEL TO [THIS STORY](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25088746/chapters/60774874)  
> (Time frame: circa 1981. Any period-inaccurate details are likely on purpose; I like to take liberties with settings and ambience)
> 
> Title is taken from 'Nightbird' by Stevie Nicks, one of the songs that served as strong mood music for this fic

He comes to the diner at half past eight every Wednesday and Saturday to watch the dark-haired man clear the tables and wipe down the bar, tired eyes downcast, beautiful in their fatigue. The neon lights are soft in the mist the rain has left in its wake. Tonight, the diner’s windows beckon more invitingly than ever.

The door used to signal his entrance with a cheerful tinkling at odds with the general air of melancholy pervading the place. But the battered silver bell had breathed its last some weeks ago, for which Judas is thankful. It allows him a few more seconds to steal a covert glance or two. Inevitably, though, the man looks up and meets his gaze with those dark eyes that seem always to flicker with hidden ghosts before the veneer of civility takes over.

Lately that veneer is given to slipping. As Judas becomes a familiar sight, he no longer makes an attempt at false cheer. But the smile, when it does appear, is genuine.

What follows is a ritual of sorts. Judas slides into his usual booth near the aging jukebox, into which he might slide a coin later, as the angel with the haunting eyes offers to pour him “the usual”. That usual is coffee, scalding and black and slightly sludgy at the bottom, just the way he likes it. He comes here to exchange a full day of people trailing endlessly in and out of the busy record store he spends four of his five weekdays at for a half hour of solitude and sometimes a cheap, deliciously greasy sandwich.

They have done this perhaps ten times or more. They have yet to trade further words beyond the transactional. Beyond thank-yous and goodnights that began as niceties and developed a different weight and shape with each subsequent visit. Neither of them seem given to easy conversation; yet something about him tells Judas he is, or was, a person of spirited words. Not the beautiful wraith who now haunts the diner soundlessly wiping tables. There are moments when the magnitude of his gaze radiates more power than any one man should have. Other times, a mere flicker of a smile lights a flame in Judas’ belly – he wants to reach out, to say more, but always he hesitates. They both do. And the flicker is gone.

The waiter leaves his lone customer be for a minute, as is customary, before lifting the coffee pot off the heater. But before he can deliver it, the ritual is disrupted. The door swings open to admit a tumble of overgrown boys who stink of beer. “I could eat a fucking horse,” one of them announces with a belch that seemingly contradicts his statement. The waiter watches them warily for a second – and then a rapid transformation occurs, and the ghost is now a statue of plaster and glass, pallid and brittle with fear. His eyes are fixed upon the oldest of the lot, whose looks and comportment sets him apart from the witless vulgarity he has chosen to surround himself with.

The man’s handsome Ivy League face lights up. “So this where you spend your nights now,” he says to the waiter. “Bit of a downgrade, no?”

“I consider it an upgrade. It has less of you in it.”

“Oh come now, Jesus,” he says, giving Judas the name he had failed to obtain all this while. “What happened to Simon & Garfunkel? Let bygones be bygones, eh?” Two of his companions immediately lapse into an off-key rendition of ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’. Jesus’ face remains impassive, though Judas suspects his folded arms hide shaking hands.

The rest of the fraternity settle noisily into a booth, two of them pulling up extra chairs. “Join us for bit, won’t you?”

“No thanks.”

“Giving me the cold shoulder again, eh, babe?” To the rest, he adds: “He’ll come around. He always does.”

“We close in ten minutes.”

The jovial manner vanishes; the man’s face hardens. “Bullshit. You’re open for another hour at least.”

The temperature seems to dip with the abrupt switch in tone. Jesus grows a shade paler. “What do you want?”

“I just want to spend some time with my friends. And my baby.” He makes an open-armed gesture. The false warmth slides back into his voice, into the magnanimous smile that is at odds with his cold gaze, which makes Judas’ skin crawl. He fumbles for the pack of Camels in his jeans pocket while telling himself firmly that none of this is his business.

“I’m not your baby. You left over a month ago.”

“Oh, you’ll always be my baby. I said I’d be back, didn’t I?”

“A man of his word, he is,” adds one of his friends, an unsavoury personage with a face begging for a fist to be put through it.

At the clink of Judas’ Zippo, Mr Ivy League turns his head to catch him staring. “That your friend over there?”

“He’s just a customer.”

“Then tell him to mind his own business.”

Judas shrugs with a nonchalance he doesn’t feel. “I’ve a right to be here as much as you, mate.” He lights his cigarette, takes a drag. After a few seconds in which the stillness of the air becomes near unbearable, Mr Ivy League leans back and his broad shoulders relax. “He’s right. And I’m hungry. Got anything to eat in here?”

He tries not to watch what seems like a perfectly ordinary diner scene unfolding before him. Tries not to notice the casual meanness in the curve of smugly upturned lips and outstretched legs and arms that take up far more space than necessary. Jesus keeps his face and voice neutral, refusing to rise to their bait. They dither over the limited menu options with innocuous questions that seem weighted with things unspoken. Dark, nasty, oily things writhing eel-like beneath a calm sea of jocularity.

By the time they are done harassing him (albeit in a way they are well within their right to, which is infuriating), Judas’ cigarette has burnt down to a cylinder of ash. And he knows that the wisest thing to do is leave. This is not his battle to fight. And yet –

Several times he sees the waiter’s head turn almost imperceptibly in his direction. Eyes sliding beneath lowered lashes but never meeting his. As the lonely child of wealthy, inattentive parents, Judas had spent a considerable amount of time watching people at parties, during which he had learnt to read the fine nuances of body language. And everything about the waiter screams _get me out of here._

After Jesus disappears with their orders into the small kitchen at the back, Judas tails him under the pretext of using the bathroom. He finds Jesus gripping the counter, trying to steady himself. His breath leaves his chest in tremors. Judas begins to guess the reason for the haunted look in his eyes, and his loathing for the men outside grows.

“You don’t have to be part of this,” says Jesus quietly. “You should leave.”

An impulsive thought strikes Judas. “Leave with me.”

“What?”

“We’ll go round the back, circle to the parking lot. We can be gone before they realise – ”

Jesus shakes his head adamantly. “He knows where I live. He’ll kill me.”

“You don’t mean that literally, right?”

After a moment’s pause, Jesus states: “One of his friends outside is a cop. He has a gun.”

“You’re not a criminal. He can’t just… _shoot_ you.” This fact does not assuage the chill in his stomach.

“I don’t know what they can or can’t, or will do. And you shouldn’t be involved.” His jaw is set, but a crack in his voice betrays him, and makes Judas reach out for his arm.

“Come with me. Now. Or you’ll go back to him, and keep living in fear of what he can or will do.”

“Babe, you still there? Don’t take too long now.”

His ex-boyfriend’s voice jars him out of inaction. He nods at Judas, and they slip out the back door, the chill of the rainy night stirring their nerves further. Judas feels suddenly and worryingly exposed as they scamper across the near-empty parking lot in full view of the neon-lit windows. He curses himself for not digging out his keys in advance, especially since the remote battery had died recently. As he jams the key into the lock, he hears a shout from the outraged ex.

“Shit.” He slides in and sticks the key in the ignition before looking up to see Jesus fumbling with the door. With a grunt he stretches to open it from inside and yanks Jesus in. As he starts the engine, a gunshot pierces the night, narrowly missing his tyres. “The fuck!” he yells in tandem with Jesus’ panicked cry. Whatever thrill he had felt from the adventure of running away with an attractive waiter is replaced with a sense of real danger. He slams down on the accelerator. His fingers are cold on the steering wheel as adrenaline kicks in and he speeds away from the diner. There is another gunshot, a distant echo far behind them. He doesn’t take his foot off the pedal until the diner is nothing more than a bright magenta dot in the horizon.

“Does your ex regularly hang out with psychos from the police force?” he says after a few minutes have passed, and his heart rate is somewhere near normal again.

“Just the one. The rest are garden variety jerks.”

“Right. This is why people don’t trust cops.”

Jesus is almost deathly quiet for most of the trip. The first sound Judas hears from him after a long stretch is a sniffle – a very subdued one. Then another, and a third, until he starts shaking alarmingly in an effort to hold back his sobs. Doing so seems to hurt him; letting them out seems to hurt even more. His every gasp for air is painful as tears stream down the face that Judas had first glimpsed as a vision haloed in neon. No longer a soundless spirit, the person next to him is all too corporeal, a mess of warm, wet heaving misery he had so thoughtlessly invited into his dry solitary life.

He tries to recall the last time he cried, and comes up blank. _Are you OK?_ seems a stupidly pointless thing to ask. He has neither words of consolation nor so much as a handkerchief to offer. Somehow it seems rude to meet such naked distress with only silence. Slowly, almost apologetically, he reaches for the radio knob and turns up the volume just enough to provide some company to the sound of spilt tears.

“I’m sorry,” whispers the bearer of those tears as they finally slow to a halt.

“No harm done.” The words sound stupidly flippant as soon as they leave his lips. He shakes his head. An awkward minutes or two passes by.

“I was supposed to lock up tonight,” Jesus says flatly, drained of feeling for now. “I’ll have to call Jean to explain…” He sighs. “I don’t know what to tell him.”

“What is his likely reaction to ‘I was running from my crazy ex-boyfriend and his trigger-happy wingman’?”

A flicker of a smile. “I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.”

As they approach a junction, Judas is compelled to ask what sounds like an inappropriate question. “Are we going to your place, or mine?”

Jesus hesitates. “I don’t want to drag you into this…”

“Too late for that.” Judas nods to the red light. “You got a few more seconds to decide.”

The light turns green just as Jesus replies: “Yours.”

Traffic is sparse, and the roads are almost as quiet as the air between them. Five minutes later, they pull up in front of a modest terrace house with flakes of paint peeling off the gates. “It looks better on the inside,” Judas says.

“I think it’s nice.” Judas notices he can’t stop looking over his shoulder, as if expecting the ex-boyfriend and his gunslinging buddy to appear around the corner. He’s beginning to harbour misgivings over the rash act of gallantry that had invited trouble right through his door. This house holds all he has in the world now. He can’t very well go crawling back to his parents eight years after walking out of their lives.

_When trouble wears a pretty face,  
It’s all too easy to lose your head  
Trouble that don’t know its place  
can leave a man for dead._

Jesus loses some of his trepidation once they’re safely inside. He is almost immediately drawn to the stacks of vinyls on a rickety shelf, and the vintage brass gramophone next to it. “I can’t believe you have one of these,” he says. “It’s a beauty.”

“Belonged to my aunt. Not sure she would’ve let me have it if she knew I’d end up the family disappointment.”

The dark eyes shoot him a curious look, and he feels bare before their loveliness. “Long story,” he says in lieu of an explanation. “Not the sort of thing you want to hear after a hard day, trust me.”

Jesus looks like he has questions, but is simultaneously distracted by the stacked albums. His fingers hover over their worn corners, enraptured gaze sliding from the player to the vinyls and back. “Play something,” Judas says. The man’s sombre face lights up a little, and Judas’s heart leaps strangely as it has never done before. “You hungry?” He shakes his head. “I haven’t much appetite at the moment.”

As Judas goes to the kitchen to make a poor substitute for the diner sandwich he never got to have, he hears the rich, scratchy voice of Janis Joplin filling the air. _“Cry, cry baby…Honey, welcome back home.”_ A smile creeps into the corners of his mouth before he can stop it. At least they share more in common than having narrowly been shot while in a car.

He decides to throw some beans in the grinder while he’s in the kitchen so he can have a drink with his snack, being the sort of person who likes coffee at all hours of the day or night. The pleasant mood set by the music in the air and the presence of the man he has been attracted to for some time in his living room makes his movements more leisurely than usual.

By the time he’s done and re-emerges with his supper, he sees that Jesus has fallen asleep while seated on his sofa, head slumped awkwardly on the armrest. A few stray tendrils of hair frame his face appealingly. Like someone who has not slept well for a long time, he looks both tremendously exhausted and at peace.

Watching him certainly makes the mediocre sandwich more palatable, even if he feels like a creep doing so. After a while, he gets up and nudges the man into a more comfortable position, shoving a throw pillow beneath his head. A large rug serves as a makeshift blanket after he shakes the dust out of it. Jesus stirs at the movement and blinks. “Only closed my eyes for a sec,” he murmurs drowsily. “Didn’t mean to – ”

“It’s fine. Not like you’re going anywhere tonight.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

Too tired to resist, Jesus lapses back into slumber, still asleep and unmoving when Judas finishes his supper and is ready to retire for the night. As he turns off the lights, he can’t help but imagine – in more detail than necessary – what it would be like to drag him into bed instead, pliant in his exhaustion, to slide a hand beneath the rumpled shirt, feeling that soft mouth part for his as he took without mercy what his barren existence so sorely lacked.

_If danger on your door arrives  
Dragging the shadow of its fear  
Beware that you don’t lose your life  
and all that you hold dear.  
_


	2. What Goes Unspoken Lingers

He shuffles into the kitchen the next morning to find Jesus looking slightly frazzled and pacing the length of the sofa. “What is it?” he asks, trying to ignore the adorably rumpled hair.

“I forgot that I’m on the day shift today. I’m probably already in trouble for leaving early last night – could I use your phone? Please.”

“Help yourself.” Judas rubs the grit from his eyes. He thinks of asking Jesus if he’d like some coffee, but the man looks wound up enough already. Maybe some tea instead. Which he realises quickly that he doesn’t have.

The slightly frantic phone call clearly did not yield the desired outcome; whoever his stand-in was supposed to be is not available for the day. Two minutes later, Jesus is pacing again, smoothing out his hair and adjusting his shirt nervously. “You’re getting on my nerves,” Judas snaps. “For fuck’s sake. You’re officially MIA, and there’s nothing anyone can do.” He shoves a half-full box of cereal along the kitchen counter. “Here, eat something.” Jesus pours some into a bowl and absently spoons it into his mouth dry.

“I’m headed to work in about an hour,” says Judas after a brief stretch of silence. “Could drop you off at the diner…or wherever else you want to be that’s on the way.”

He nods gratefully. “I should at least drop by to make sure nothing is missing. I’m sure I locked the cash register last night – right as you came in – but still.” He fumbles with the tail of his shirt. Being ever sharp with the subtleties of body language, Judas can tell he’s hesitating to say more. “Spit it out.”

“It’s nothing. I’ve imposed enough already.”

“If you want to shower, you can. I’ve a bunch of old shirts I no longer wear. You can have your pick of the least mouldy ones.”

He perks up a little. “If you don’t mind…”

“Wouldn’t offer if I did.”

About fifteen minutes later, Jesus emerges in one of his long-sleeved shirts: a dark blue one in faded windowpane plaid. _God, it’s like we’re a married couple or something._ The smell of his shampoo is particularly attractive in the soft, freshly washed hair, a fact that is harder to ignore in the confined space of the car. He considers winding down the windows but decides against it. If this ends up being their last time meeting outside the diner, he wants to remember the scent now pervading the air.

When they reach their destination, Judas thinks for a moment that it’s the wrong place. He hears Jesus’ sharp gasp beside him.

In place of the familiar diner is a grotesquely battered version fronted by broken windows and dangling strips of neon tubing. It appears the violent ex-boyfriend and his gang had enacted an act of vengeance as their parting gift – one that Judas deems wildly out of proportion. As Jesus stumbles out of the car towards the wreckage, he wonders with chilled bones if the madmen are done with their petty yet cruel revenge, or if he’ll leave work one day to find his car reduced to a similar state as his favourite supper joint.

Several minutes pass before worry starts to creep in and he decides to check on Jesus. He gingerly avoids the splintered door and enters to find the man reduced once more to a wraith with haunted eyes, the pained stare a plea for help he doesn’t know how to answer.

Then the realisation sinks in that he’s partly to blame for initiating the impulsive rescue mission. Of course, the _actual_ blame lies with the heartless drunkards who had caused the brutally thorough destruction surrounding the beautiful man wearing his shirt. He wants to drive his fist into each one of those smug faces and pound them into dust, for all the good it will do.

“I couldn’t very well have left you there,” he says in response to an accusation never made. _I should have walked away._ “I hope you changed your locks – would hate to think the same had happened to your place.”

Jesus shivers at the thought. “I did. Thank gods.”

A better man would have put an arm around him; he looks like someone who has lost all hope, the light gold of his face turned pale once more. At a loss for words, they stumble back out into the late morning sun. Judas walks away in long strides – then turns back, realising he can’t just leave Jesus standing there against the ruins of his former place of employment. “You got somewhere else you’d rather be?”

Jesus blinks numbly for a second or two. “Not till tonight. At Thursday’s.”

“The café on Heritage Row? You’re waiting tables there too?”

“No, I just make the coffee.”

“Is it any good?”

“According to the regulars, yes.”

“I’ll come by some time.” He checks his watch. “I gotta be at work in five. But if Moe can spot me for a bit, I could drop you off. If your place isn’t too far, that is.”

Jesus hesitates, folds his arms. He mumbles something; the bitten-off words are lost in the passing breeze.

“You’ll have to speak up or I’m leaving you here.”

He blushes then. “I said, I don’t…” His gaze drops to the ground. “I don’t want to be alone. Not right now.”

Judas doesn’t know what to say to that. He mentally tries out various words of comfort; none of them sound right. With a sigh he opens the passenger door, rolling his eyes at Jesus’ wide-eyed stare. “I’m not abandoning you, stupid. Get in.”

At the record store, Maureen greets him with three big boxes of LPs and cassettes that needed sorting. Judas overhears Jesus making a phone call to his boss, or more likely ex-boss, as he tries to describe the wreckage he has just left and the suspected cause of it. He feels bad for his relief at being kept busy enough to take his mind off the stray ex-waiter he had rescued and now doesn’t know what to do with. Jesus looks noticeably strained by the time he ends the call.

“Out of a job yet?”

Jesus bites his lip, doesn’t answer. After a few seconds, he joins Judas in sorting albums.

“You don’t have to do that.”

His mouth lifts in a half-smile. “I can’t just sit around like a part of the interior décor.”

“Why not? You’re pretty enough.” The teasing turns the smile into a full one. “If you’re serious about helping, though, maybe you can guide the lost sheep milling around the hard rock section. Tell that old lady she’s not going to find Bing Crosby next to Ozzy Osbourne.”

In the space of the next half hour, Judas discovers that Jesus has a gift for turning casual browsers into enthusiastic purchasers. The passion animating his gestures as he fulfils requests for recommendations fills him with a radiance Judas would never have thought possible from the apparition of neon and shadow he used to know. One diffident young man goes from being torn between two Cream albums into buying the whole collection. The old woman turns up at the cashier with both Bing Crosby _and_ Black Sabbath. “I had a chat with that nice young man. I suppose if listening to this hasn’t made him a devil worshipper, then my grandchildren should be fine. They’re perfectly decent kids,” she warbles.

“That’s sweet of you. Are these birthday presents?” Maureen asks of the Sabbath albums.

“That they are.” The lady takes back her change and waves at Jesus before leaving. “Your friend seems like a real keeper,” says Maureen after she leaves.

“Well, he _is_ in need of a job.”

She whistles in Jesus’ direction, prompting him to look up from where he’s busy rearranging cassettes. “Hey. What’s-your-name. You don’t have to work for free, you know.”

The half-smile makes its appearance again. “I was just hanging out. I’m with Judas, he gave me a ride to…”

“I’m dropping him off at Thursday’s later.”

“The Italian-looking place at The Row, huh. You work there? I hear the coffee’s amazing.”

“Yeah, well. He makes it.”

Maureen raises an eyebrow. “So you already got a gig. Too bad.”

“I’m only there in the evenings. In the day I’m free till about five.”

“Don’t rush into it,” says Judas. “Moe’s a slave driver, she’ll wear you out.” She whacks his shoulder playfully, but hard. “What? I just don’t want the quality of the coffee to suffer.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jesus tells her.

The hours pass pleasantly enough. The store is moderately bustling today, enough for Jesus to convert a good handful of casual browsers into very profitable customers. Maureen is incredibly pleased and treats them to sushi for lunch. Near the end of the shift, he says to Judas: “I’ll probably take Moe up on her offer.”

“Like I said. Don’t rush it.”

“I need the job. Can’t afford rent otherwise. I used to split it with…” The shadowed look returns before he tries to shrug it off. “Anyway, I’ll have to look for a cheaper place.”

“You can stay at mine.” The words are out his mouth before he even realises what they are. Jesus just gapes at him for a while. “Are you sure?”

“Actually, no. I’m the kind of person who likes my space, you know? And I’m terrible to live with. Especially before noon. But – ” He shrugs. “If you can put up with me being an asshole half the time and a prick the other half, we can give it a shot.”

A soft laugh. “I’m not the best roommate myself.” He bites his lip again, an insignificant act which somehow drives Judas crazy. _Those lips will be the death of me. If the eyes don’t kill me first._ “But I don’t want to if you’re not sure. You’ve done enough for me already.”

“I guess it _is_ kind of crazy. We’ve known each other for about twenty-four hours.”

He lowers his eyes, suddenly shy. “I think it’s been a bit longer than that.”

Judas’ heart skips a beat or two. Before he is even conscious of it, they are standing barely inches apart, enough to feel the warmth of each other’s breath. Although neither of them say a word until they slowly drift apart, what goes unspoken lingers, waiting only to manifest as the inevitable.

_Trouble takes you by the hand  
And asks you for a dance, then two  
Take a chance on a dark-eyed man  
who takes a chance on you.  
_

*

After dropping him off at the café, their parting is strange and weighted with both want and reluctance. Neither of them is ready for something permanent; yet what has transpired between them is undeniable, inerasable.

“I trust you’ll make it home on your own alive.”

“I will. I always take the bus. It goes right to my place.”

Once more they stand close enough for a kiss that never happens. Then Jesus turns away, and slips out of his grasp.

Judas doesn’t see him again for a week. There is more than enough to keep him busy, after all, including the band he plays in after eight and on weekends across three dive pubs. During his day job, he does his best to carry on without entertaining visions of a man with dark wavy hair wandering the aisles. The smile that, when it does appear, lights up a room and turns the most perfunctory visitor into one of the faithful flock hanging on to his every word.

Maureen asks about him every other day. Judas’ reply is almost too purposefully vague. In response, she eyes him with a knowing look.

Another week passes. Things slide back to normal, days and nights and hours taking on the familiar shape they always assumed before they had been disrupted by a wild getaway and gunshots that echoed into a stretch of empty road.

And then one night, as he is strumming the riffs to ‘Foxy Lady’ on a cramped stage in a smoky blues bar, the perpetual haze lifts momentarily to reveal a familiar face that makes him miss a chord. He carries on afterward as if nothing is out of the ordinary, but is suddenly conscious of every twitch of his body, haunted by the sensation of being watched. It is not an unpleasant feeling – and one that makes the hairs on his arms and neck tingle.

The band’s ten-minute break can hardly come soon enough; yet when it does, his heart begins to race. He forces deliberation into each step as he makes his way toward the table where Jesus sits alone before a mostly untouched mug. “Your second beer?”

“The first. It’s not very good.”

“You got the lousy stuff. The regulars know better.” He slides into the seat opposite Jesus. "Should I ask how you found me, or just assume I have a stalker now?"

It's endearing how easily he blushes. "I stopped by the record store the other day; you'd just left. Moe told me your band was playing here." Jesus fiddles with the worn leather bracelets he always wears on his right wrist, a nervous gesture that is also vaguely seductive. “You’re very attractive when you play – ” The rush of colour in his cheeks intensifies as he bites his lower lip. Judas feels a similar rush of warmth creeping down his neck. “Do continue,” he says dryly, in a voice at odds with his racing pulse.

More fiddling, lowered eyes fixed upon the greasy table top. “You know what I mean.”

He lights a cigarette. “So this is one of your rare off-days.”

A nod. “I’ll probably take the job at the record store. If your boss is still hiring.”

“Moe’s offer still stands.” He takes a deep drag before adding: “So does mine.”

A cloud of silence and smoke hangs between them. “Are you sure this time?”

“Do I _sound_ unsure, or did your ex leave you with a shit ton of trust issues?”

“I don’t know if there’s been an ex who hasn’t.”

He frowns, curious. “How old _are_ you? Not enough to be so jaded, surely.” For all the spectres of his chequered past, his face is soft and unlined. If not for the slightly bruised look of his tired eyes, he would look even younger.

“Young enough to still make stupid decisions, I guess.”

“Stupidity’s not exclusive to the young.”

The dark eyes finally cease to wander along the table and meet his straight on. “I’d like to do something right for once.” The fingers are tangling and twisting, nerves now on full display. “I don’t know if I’m ready to be with someone. But – ”

“But you’d like to keep your options open. Don’t we all?” He knows his voice is needlessly curt; Jesus blinks, looking hurt for a second. Too late to take it back now. “Look. I’m not rushing you into anything,” he adds as they come to an impasse. It feels pointless to pursue the matter any further. With a show of nonchalance, Judas rises and is about to walk away when suddenly a hand grabs his wrist. He turns his head just as those soft lips part to say:

“My place. Tonight?”

His heart stops for a full two seconds before picking up pace so rapidly it threatens to burst from his chest. His nod is barely noticeable. But then their fingers are intertwining, savouring the miracle of this minute touch, this infinitely tender moment, before parting with a promise that needs no words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maureen ‘Moe’ Tucker was the drummer for Velvet Underground until 1971, when she temporarily quit the music business to raise her kids. She wouldn’t return to it full-time until the 1990s. In between she spent time with her family and worked at a Walmart distribution centre. She is reimagined here as the owner of the music store Judas is employed at prior to fully pursuing his own rock & roll dreams.


	3. The Promise of Sweetness

Jesus’ current residence is within shouting distance of civilisation while simultaneously hidden from it by clusters of wide shady trees, built along the incline of a gently sloping hill. The low-density apartments house just four storeys each: simple white-washed buildings with quaint balconies and seasoned red-tiled awnings. He points out a small burnt patch on the one overhanging his balcony. “From an accident involving a new barbeque grill,” he says. “I offered to pay for the damages, but luckily my landlady was forgiving. She says it adds character.”

“Good to know. Remind me not to trust you with food and fire, though.”

“You probably shouldn’t. Baking’s more my thing.”

Slipping through the door of the small but pleasant apartment, they are like two shy teenagers on a first date, daring only to clasp hands with shoulders pressed against each other. Yet they are content. Such simple things seem enough for now. Judas finds himself as enamoured of Jesus’ books as the latter was of his vinyls. The large and eclectic collection occupies two tall, wide shelves that take up half the narrow living room.

“I don’t want to give up this place,” he says softly as Judas thumbs through a volume of poetry by Jalaluddin Rumi. “The good memories outweigh the bad. Now that he’s gone, I like it even more.”

“I see what you mean. I’ve a good mind to move in here, but I’d have to throw away half my stuff.”

Jesus smiles. “I’d like that. Not you throwing away your things, of course, but – ”

Then they are standing less than two inches apart, and this time they don’t stop. In the space of a breath they bridge that final gap. Every part of them fits perfectly together, mouths feeding off each other, hands clinging tight as if unseen forces are trying to tear them apart. Then the same hands are sliding beneath fabric, hungry for the touch of skin on skin. Judas presses the hard ache of his arousal against Jesus’ thigh and elicits a melodic cry, dripping with want.

They tumble onto the sofa in a breathless heap – on fire, unable to stop, until the moment when Judas’ fingers trace Jesus’ collarbones, the tempting dip of his clavicle, and begin to unbutton the rumpled shirt. As he is teased by the brush of an exposed nipple, the man starts to pull away. He doesn’t register this until the quickening breaths take on a different quality: a stiff hesitance laced with the chill of fear.

“What is it?” He tries to still his impatient hands, which trail down instead to the button of Jesus’ faded black jeans.

“I…I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

Lust and fear mingle confusingly on his face, in the grasping yet hesitant hands that pull one second and push away the next. For once, Judas is incapable of reading him. “Fuck, babe. Tell me what you want.”

“Don’t call me that.” The chest beneath him starts to heave in panic.

“What are you on about?” Frustrated, he make the mistake of pulling Jesus towards him, perhaps with more force than he should. His hands are tight on Jesus’ wrists without being conscious of it until the latter starts to struggle. Then he is being shoved away abruptly. An elbow sinks painfully into his chest. _“Fuck!”_ Before he can stop himself, he reflexively lands a backhand on the very same face he had kissed tenderly a minute ago. He withdraws, mortified at what he has done.

“I – I’m sorry – ”

Jesus looks at him as if he’s a stranger, trembling, an arm raised as if to shield himself further assault. “I’m not about to hurt you. I didn’t mean to. Alright? I’m sorry.”

“I…I know.”

“You did hit me first.”

“I’m sorry too.” The cold gaze turns weary, apologetic, but also defensive. Judas senses a wall forming between them. He tries in vain to breach it.

“Don’t touch me,” Jesus says in a small voice. “Please.”

“I don’t understand…”

“It was too soon. I made a mistake. That’s all.”

Judas feels something icy and hard forming in his gut. “A mistake? That’s all I am?” He rises to his feet. “Just another stupid decision, huh?”

Jesus flinches at his tone. Judas knows he should stop, but those words have set something off in him. “I’ve been a mistake to others before. You’re hardly the first. But at least I don’t lead people on and then drive them into a fucking wall.”

Jesus perches on edge of the sofa, eyes brimming and red-rimmed. Judas watches him warily even as his heart aches for this lovely, wretched, contradictory creature. He had briefly dated someone who had honed the weaponizing of tears to a fine art. But he can’t bring himself to suspect Jesus of the same.

He shakes his head. “Maybe you’re right. I’m no good for anyone. Never have been.” _Not even to the people who made me._

The small cosy space that had glowed with the promise of sweetness has become a lifeless husk, sapping him dry, suffocating him. Slowly he walks to where his boots had been hastily discarded and pulls them back on, hoping all the time that Jesus will change his mind. Hoping for those lips to part and form the shape of his name. The barest whisper would make him turn, even against his better judgment.

It never comes. And so he leaves, empty yet full of regret.

_The taste of trouble, soft and sweet  
Turns bitter in the light of day  
And words of love forged in its heat  
turns ice-hard in decay.  
_

*

He tells himself not to be the desperate one, the fool who keeps pursuing a pointless quarry. Clearly neither of them are ready for the next stage of wherever a relationship is supposed to go (if what they have had could even be considered a relationship). Then again, he had felt plenty ready at the moment he had been pushed away. Clearly the feeling had not been reciprocated. It was something he had to respect, or risk being another in the long line of jerks in Jesus’ romantic history.

And yet…

After consecutive nights of being haunted by visions of a rare smile and fingers reaching for his, graceful in their naked desire, he finds himself standing outside the café on the stretch of quaint crumbling blocks known to locals simply as The Row. He has only seen it from outside in the day. After dark it looks like a different place: less polished, more welcoming, a beacon of warmth on the otherwise dimly lit street.

Despite the quiet surroundings, the interior of the café is nicely filled, over three quarters of the tables fully occupied. He is greeted with the cheerful glint of seasoned brass and brick walls and art nouveau-style chairs. Best of all is the sound of the beautiful man at the espresso machines passionately explaining the merits of different beans as the customer he is talking to goes rapidly from irritated to enraptured. He slides discreetly into a corner that obscures him from Jesus’ view. Judging from the conversation he has come just in time to catch, the fussy-looking middle-aged man at the counter has made the mistake of insisting that robusta brews are inferior to arabicas.

The lack of a queue at the moment allows them to go on at length until their lively exchange is cut short by a portly lady sidling up to ask for a café au lait. Judas waits until he’s done with the last order before taking her place.

If Jesus is surprised to see him, he hides it with curt politeness. “What can I get you?”

“Whatever you so successfully sold Mister Anti-Robusta on. And the smile that came with it.”

“I’m afraid we’re low on smiles. Try the Starbucks down the road.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. The person making the coffee isn’t half as good-looking.”

A strange expression crosses his face; Judas can’t tell if he’s biting back a smile or a snort of derision. Then he looks away and sighs. “I’m sorry for the way things ended. I was being…” he fumbles for the right word. “Careless.”

“As I recall, neither of us were being particularly careful.”

“I meant to say – ” He gazes out the window at things unseen by the naked eye. “I was looking for something I couldn’t have.”

“And what is that?”

“I don’t know. Something good.” His face darkens with shame. “I should know by now that…”

“That you don’t deserve good things?”

He sighs. "I don't know anymore."

“It’s funny. For most of my life, I’ve been given good things and never felt worthy of them. That I’ve had it easy.”

“Have you?” Jesus’ voice is soft but inquisitive.

He shrugs. “Had everything I could want growing up. Both parents came from money. And then I decided to throw it all away.”

“What for?”

He feels his hand reaching out, sliding tentatively across the burnished wood, barely able to stop it. And the other’s fingers twitch and long to meet his. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

Jesus reaches out, but then pulls back at the last second, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I’m ready. I keep repeating mistakes without knowing which one will turn out not to be…”

“You’ll never know if you stop now.”

After a beat, the soft lips curve upward. “Last call in five minutes.” His eyes flick to the clock hanging above. “Do you still want that coffee?”

The intoxicating Vietnamese-style brew – thick and ink-dark, served with sticky-sweet condensed milk – lingers on his tongue when the café doors close and he follows Jesus to the bus stop at the end of the street. It’s a compromise they settle on while bridging the gap between the limbo they hover in and something more permanent. The bus is not due for a while yet, allowing them a leisurely walk, their hands clasped with the casual intimacy of lovers who knew each other in another life.

“Do you play the guitar?” Judas asks.

His answer, when it comes, is intriguing. “I wonder how my life would’ve been different if I didn’t.”

“You have to tell me that story now. Don’t leave me hanging.”

He drifts closer to Judas almost unconsciously as if seeking assurance, and Judas slides his hand around Jesus’ waist to pull him close. It feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“I was sixteen. He was forty-eight.” Jesus’ voice drops to a whisper. “He was my first.”

Even before hearing the rest, Judas’ arm tightens around him. “I was with him for nearly a year,” Jesus continues. “I stole his guitar. He let me keep it…for a price.”

He doesn’t say more, but the way his breath catches in his throat is telling of the story’s unsavoury aspects. “I was proud of it, though. It was an old battered thing when I found it. An acoustic folk guitar, of pretty good quality. I fixed it up nicely, and I got to keep it in the end.”

“He just let you have it?”

“I ran away with it. You could say I stole it from him twice.”

 _Still a sore deal, considering what he took from you._ They arrive at the shaded stand where two other commuters are waiting. Judas pulls him close and a flame springs to life inside him, hot and fierce and protective, as Jesus clings to him with the urgency of belated need making up for lost time. Judas feels the desperate urge to plunge himself into the past and put a fist through the face of the creep who had marked him so. And then do the same to every abusive slimebag who came after.

“Come back tomorrow,” Jesus whispers as the loud lumbering bus pulls up by the curb. In lieu of a reply, Judas kisses the side of his mouth.

Jesus is halfway up the steps when he stops and hurriedly clambers back down. “I think you should have this,” he says breathlessly as he digs into his backpack. He presses something into Judas’ hands, then takes off immediately, not daring to wave or even look back. Judas watches the bus rumble off into the distance; only when it becomes a faraway speck does he look down at the slim, well-worn volume. It is the book of poetry by Rumi he had picked from Jesus’ shelf. He traces the slightly faded letters, the curves of the floral motifs on the cover art. That is when he notices the pages marked by strips of paper.

He walks back to where his car is parked, his strident pace driven by the impatience of his joyously pounding heart. The memory of those giddy whispered words – _Come back tomorrow_ – makes him feel like he’s treading on air. Once inside, he flips on the light and turns to the bookmarked pages. Within the poems he finds stanzas and excerpts lightly underlined in pencil.

_“I chose to love you in silence  
For in silence, I find no rejection._

_I chose to adore you from a distance,  
For distance will shield me from pain._

_I choose to hold you in my dreams  
For in my dreams, you have no end.”_

His chest feels strangely full to bursting yet robbed of breath. With trembling fingers he turns to the next marked page.

_“I see my beauty in you;  
I become a mirror that cannot close its eyes  
to your longing.”  
_

Another page, another string of words chosen for their wistful sincerity, their boundless beauty that stretches across time and distance.

_“The way that the night knows itself with the moon,  
be that with me. Be the rose  
nearest to the thorn that I am.  
_

_There is nothing worse than to walk the streets  
without you; I don’t know where I am going.  
You are the road, and the knower of roads,  
more than maps, more than love.”  
_

The paper feels at once fragile and sensual beneath his touch. He inhales its pleasant scent of seasoned books and thinks of Jesus’s head bent over the pages, tracing the same lines as his fingers now trace, closing his eyes and breathing in the imaginary scent of that soft wavy hair. When he opens his eyes again, he finds them stinging and wet. His heart is aching, yet its soreness is sweet and worth savouring. It aches and thunders and sings as he drives off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) I did probably an unreasonable amount of research into 70s and 80s coffee culture for that one scene in the cafe where Jesus works. During which I found out that the word ‘barista’ was not used before 1984 (hence its absence in this story), that the first Starbucks opened in 1971, and that the famous Vietnamese ca phe sua (which I love) was introduced by French colonizers who imported condensed milk as a dairy substitute for cafe au lait.
> 
> (2) I usually prefer not to pin most of my fics in a particular piece of geography, but borrow from the ambience and influences of all kinds of places I love or have been to, as well as bits of imagery from movies and such. Heritage Row (also sometimes called The Row by nearby locals) is the name of a street in my city. It used to be a lovely, slightly crumbly strip alongside a cluster of old buildings before being gentrified into pricey pubs and restaurants. I like to think of the setting in this story as being such a place on the cusp of gentrification but not quite — still retaining its original flavour and legacy.
> 
> (3) The description of Jesus’ apartment is based almost exactly on a place i fell in love with that belonged to an ex-client, from the location and exterior to the bookshelves that occupy a large part of the living room.


	4. The Rose Nearest To The Thorn

He keeps the promise he had sealed with a kiss, showing up ten minutes before closing time. Jesus locks the door of the café and reaches for him wordlessly. A hand slips into his as if it has done so a thousand times before.

The last time they stood in front of his rusting gate, Jesus had had the look of a hunted animal. Tonight he could hardly be more different, radiating the calm flicker of a steady candle flame. They are both shielded by the glow of a blossoming intimacy that renders them all but invincible.

“I’ve something to show you,” says Judas as he unlocks the door to the garage. “It’s what I threw away my expensive education for. And probably made my parents regret not having a second kid.”

“So we’re both only children. I’m glad we found each other.”

Jesus emits a sound of delight as he lifts the door to reveal a small music studio kitted with both acoustic and electric guitars, a distortion box, a keyboard and an almost-complete drum set. “It’s just missing cymbals, but I figured those might be excessive. I’m a rudimentary drummer, at best – but I was thinking to start a band someday. It’s just a pipe dream until there are people to go with the instruments.”

“May I…?” Jesus’ fingers brush the neck of a blondewood Fender Squier. At Judas’ nod, he picks it up and plucks a few notes as the former marvels at how he plays as if the instrument had been made for him, simply waiting to fulfil its destiny. As he had been waiting to fulfil his. The skilled fingers tune the guitar until the sound of the strings fills his face with a calm satisfaction. He starts strumming a low melody, vaguely bluesy, moody, both melancholic and hopeful.

“Where’s that from?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Just making it up.”

“Don’t…Just keep at it. Don’t stop.” Judas picks up another guitar and starts strumming a series of experimental chords complementing the rhythm and key set by Jesus. The air between them hums with elation; the excitement of creation, of birth. As they settle into a groove, he starts humming, then singing:

“When trouble wears a pretty face,  
It’s all too easy to lose your head  
Trouble that don’t know its place  
can leave a man for dead. _  
_

"Trouble takes you by the hand  
And asks you for a dance, then two  
Take a chance on a dark-eyed man  
who takes a chance on you.”

“That’s interesting. Did you write it?”

“Started the night you got into my car. It just grew from there.” Judas smiles wryly. “It’s uh, not very pleasant. But it gets better.”

Jesus frowns as if he can’t decide to be pleased or not. “Is that all I was to you: a pretty face?”

“Well we didn’t exactly get to talking much. Not at first.”

The frown fades, replaced by a wistful look. “I guess we had to start somewhere.” He pauses before adding: "I thought you were kinda pretty too."

"You're goddamn right I am."

Jesus smiles as he continues plucking and strumming, picking out a bass line that follows up where they paused, deviating a little from the original melody. “Is there more to the song?” he asks softly.

In response, Judas digs out the crumpled notebook that seldom leaves his back pocket and unfolds it, skimming the hastily scrawl lines. Propping it on a drum stand, he improvises a riff and lets the words spill off his tongue.

“The taste of trouble, soft and sweet  
Turns bitter in the light of day  
And words of love forged in its heat  
turn ice-hard in decay.

“It turned on me, turning nasty  
Hit me in the chest, then kissed me  
Perhaps in love I was too hasty  
in needing you to please me.”

He realises that Jesus had stopped playing somewhere around the last two lines. The smile is gone; he looks regretful, clearly reminded of the occasion that had inspired those lyrics. “I’m sorry,” he says despondently.

“Stop apologizing.” Judas’ voice is rough with frustration and love. “Stop feeling like you have to be sorry for…for everything.”

“I’m trying,” Jesus replies with downcast eyes. “I keep messing things up and I don’t know how to stop.”

“Maybe stop being a goddamn martyr, for one.”

Jesus looks up as if he’s been struck. “I didn’t mean it that way,” sighs Judas. “Look…I don’t know what you’ve been made to believe, but it takes two to fuck up a relationship.”

“I know.” His voice is barely a whisper.

“Then stop being an idiot.”

Jesus looks up to meet his gaze. He steps forward, closing the distance between them. Then the guitars are gone and nothing is in the way of the heat and tenderness of colliding mouths and hips. They kiss hungrily yet unhurriedly, taking their time to get acquainted with the curves and angles of each other’s bodies. There will be more to know, in time, without clothes as the final barrier. For now Judas is content to trace those soft generous lips with his thumb, utterly aroused at the way those black eyelashes flutter at his touch. His jeans are tight with the hardness of his need.

Jesus’ hand slides down to where its curve is pressed against his thigh. “I wish I could make someone happy again,” he whispers.

“What about you?” Judas asks, intercepting his hand. “Don’t _you_ count as someone?”

Jesus blinks rapidly, as if he had never considered the idea. He bites his lip and leans into Judas’ chest. “I want to be ready,” he says after a moment of struggling with words. “I _want_ to please you.”

“Stop.” Judas clasps the back of his neck. “Don’t take those words I wrote the wrong way. What I feel didn’t – doesn’t dictate what I do. I would never force myself on anyone without immediately hurling myself off a tall building after, because filth like that shouldn’t be alive.”

Instead of being reassured, Jesus starts trembling in his arms. He feels the wet warmth of tears against his t-shirt. “Was it something I said?” he mutters. Jesus shakes his head, but doesn’t stop crying. This time, at least, he has the comfort of Judas’ arms around him. “Seems like being around me sets you off,” he mutters after a while. “Or did all your partners make you cry?”

“None of them did,” Jesus murmurs. "I didn't know how to. I was scared and stupid. I let them do what they wanted." His grip on Judas’ shoulders tightens. “Everyone I was ever with did the same. Because I let them.”

“You don’t really blame yourself for all that, do you?”

A sniffle. “Not anymore.”

He falls silent after that. The tears and the heaving cease. They stand there like lovers of stone locked in an embrace meant to last for centuries.

Eventually the stone turns back to flesh, with all of its fleshly needs. “Are you hungry?” Judas asks.

Jesus wipes the wetness from his face. “A little.”

In fact, he is ravenous – they both are. When the pizza they order arrives, they make short work of it, their appetite seemingly as boundless as their newfound love. The anxious, fluttering throes of attraction are all but gone, replaced by new kinds of thrills. Tucking a stray lock of hair behind someone’s ear. One calf hooked onto another without knowing when it first happened. As they devour the last slices of pizza, Jesus reaches out to wipe a smear of sauce just beneath Judas’ mouth and licks it off his fingers. The act is both childish and oddly titillating. On impulse Judas grabs him, ignoring his protests about grease stains on his shirt, and starts kissing and groping him. The perfunctory complaints melt rapidly into hums of arousal and quickening breaths. He practically whines with need when Judas leaves him to grab a bottle of merlot. “No fancy stuff here,” Judas says as he brings out a couple of basic water glasses in lieu of goblets. “Might steal some from my parents’ house if I’m ever allowed back there.”

“Did they cut you off entirely when you dropped out of university?”

“Not immediately. I took what should have gone towards my education and living expenses and got this place instead. Paid six months of rent and got the owner’s permission to turn the unused garage into what you saw. Minus the instruments, which I bought with my own money.” He drained his glass, poured out another. “By the time my folks found out, I’d had a job for two years. Managed to get along alright even with all my inheritance cut off. I hope they gave it to charity.”

Jesus fills his own glass and sips from it thoughtfully. “I don’t understand why they didn’t do the easy thing and just let you pursue music. It’s not like they needed to worry about you starving.”

Judas shrugs. “They saw me growing into a wild child from their own neglect, and sought to correct their mistakes too late. Tried to mould me into something I’m not. Classic story.”

He gets up to put another record on. Jefferson Airplane’s ‘Somebody To Love’ punctuates the air with its sharp chords and Grace Slick’s triumphant, almost accusatory vocals. “This song was playing on the radio after my second…no, third breakup,” Jesus comments. “In the car that I nearly crashed. Good thing I didn’t – it was a friend’s car, not mine.”

“If it brings back bad memories, we can play something else – ”

“No, leave it on. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

They end up in each other’s arms on the sofa after emptying two bottles. As they’re drifting off in a pleasant haze, Judas finds himself reciting an excerpt from the Rumi poem. _“The way that the night knows itself with the moon; be that with me. Be the rose nearest to the thorn that I am.”_ The words sound stilted coming from his lips, but they also feel right for the fullness in his heart. “I never did thank you for the book,” he says. “Were you carrying it around hoping I would drop by?”

Jesus laughs. His head is a pleasant weight on Judas’ chest, the warmth of his breath both sensual and soothing. “No, actually. I was in the midst of reading it.”

“Oh, sure. And marking specific pages and lines is just a regular habit.”

“No. It’s not. I wasn’t even intending to give it to you…but…” He shrugs. “It just felt right.”

“Well, I love it. And I’m keeping it.”

“I was hoping you would.” Jesus’ fingers intertwine with his.

“Never been much into poetry before,” Judas adds. “Didn’t know it could evoke such…intense feeling.”

“Music does the same. With lyrics, it’s a form of poetry.”

He absently traces circles on Jesus’ back. “You have a point.” And yet…there is something far more intimate about poetry, he thinks, especially when it cannot simply be played and heard at a moment’s notice. When it lies nestled between pages, like secret words shared between two people.

Jesus shifts so each curve of his body sinks deeper into Judas’, closing every minuscule gap between them. It’s a sensation that is wonderful beyond words. Beyond music and poetry, an endless warmth stretching into the distant stars. Judas tries to recall the last time he had felt this deeply content. He had learnt to live without attachment for so long that every nerve warns him it’s a bad idea. Nothing lasts forever. All good things must end.

“Then show me where the it ends,” he finds himself whispering. “And we’ll jump off the edge together.” _I don’t know where I am going. You are the road, and the knower of roads, more than maps, more than love._

Jesus mumbles something in reply, half-mired in slumber. Judas falls asleep with one hand cradling the curve of his shoulder, the other buried in soft dark hair. The last thing he feels is the rise and fall of their chests synchronising effortlessly, and the knowledge that all is right with the world.

*

“You need a break, sweetheart?” Moe calls with a look of concern.

Jesus looks up, trying to blink the fatigue from his eyes. “I’m fine. I’m leaving in half an hour, anyway.”

“How come you never call _me_ sweetheart?” Judas grumbles.

“Because you’re not one, and honesty is my policy.”

“She’s right though, you know,” Judas says to Jesus. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, that’s very comforting. And it’s not what she said.”

Judas checks his watch, wishing he didn’t have to stay behind while Jesus leaves for the second job he shouldn’t have to endure. “You’re still working weekends at the café, aren’t you?”

“I have to, until the end of the month. I’m already behind on rent.”

“Well, something’s got to give. You were close to keeling over five minutes ago.”

He gives a half-shrug, and fiddles with his shirt hem the way he always does when he’s hesitating to say more. Judas stands there with an air of persistence until he breaks the silence.

“I recently bumped into an old schoolmate. At the café. She’s looking for a new place, so I showed her mine, and she’s keen on having it.”

“That’s a relief. Knowing how attached you are to that apartment. At least you can still visit.”

He nods. “She’ll probably move in the middle of next month if my landlady’s cool with her.” There is a bit more fiddling before he continues: “Looks like I’ll finally take up your offer. I assume your couch is still available.”

“Pretty sure half my bed is available too.”

Jesus grins in response. The blush that eradicates the tiredness from his face is enough to make Judas want to ravish him on the spot. He has been employed here for just two weeks, and Judas wonders how much longer they can behave professionally while in each other’s orbit during business hours.

“No making out until you’re finished with inventory,” Maureen calls as she gets ready to leave. With the two of them handling things efficiently, she now only comes in once or twice a week. “Remember to lock up later, Jude.”

“When was the last time I forgot?”

“Last time you didn’t have anyone to distract you.” She winks.

Judas rolls his eyes and mutters beneath his breath. But as soon the door swings shut, he grabs Jesus by the arm and pulls him in for a kiss.

“I’ll have to make room for all those books of yours,” he murmurs as they part for breath.

“I won’t need all of them. About half at most. There’s some kitchen equipment I’ll need to transport though.”

“I can drop by later tonight, after ten.”

Jesus leans in for another kiss. “Thank you.” He squirms with pleasure as Judas grabs his ass. “We should get away from the window,” he says with a laugh.

“Maybe we’ll attract more people into the store.”

“Mmm. I have to leave soon if I’m going to catch the bus.”

“All the more reason to dial it up, then. End the show with a bang. Take off some clothes.”

“Dream on.” He tugs playfully on the edge of Judas’ t-shirt. “Maybe tonight, if I haven’t keeled over yet.”

As usual, the hours crawl by right when he wants them to step on it. As the customers slow to a crawl toward closing time, he allows himself to imagine what it would be like waking up next to the man he had so rashly dragged into his life, who drove him mad with need and tenderness. To fall asleep inches from hair that smelt faintly of his own shampoo, to taste those lips and other parts he had yet to explore. To see him naked for the first time.

Ridiculous, to allow such sentimentality into his life. Knowing how such things destroyed as many couples as it brought them together. And yet such knowledge had not prevented his life from falling into the trajectory of a cliched love song, the kind he used to experience with a detached appreciation the way someone looks upon an abstract painting in a gallery. No longer can he pretend to be an objective viewer. He is a part of the paint itself: in every stroke and line, sinking into the canvas, able to tear himself from it only at the cost of his own annihilation.

Judas realises he is truly in over his head when he catches himself singing along to Olivia Newton-John on the radio as he turns off the main road and up the low incline leading to the row of neat white-washed apartments. Songs that had seemed like mawkish sweet nothings not so long ago are filled with new colour and warmth. He shakes his head in wry amusement, and then turns up the volume.

 _Mine is not the first heart broken  
My eyes are not the first to cry  
I'm not the first to know  
There's no getting over you  
…I’m hopelessly devoted to you._

The halo of sweet anticipation envelopes him still as he reverses into the parking lot in front of the unit with the scorched awning. That is when he sees Jesus emerge with an attractive bushy-haired woman wearing a radiant grin.

Judas’ fingers freeze on the steering wheel as Jesus responds to something she says with the same shy smile he had always reserved for one person until now. They are deep enough in conversation that neither of them notice his car. The woman takes his hands as she emphasizes a point, eyes alight with warmth that is visible even in the dark. Jesus doesn’t pull away.

He knows on some level that he is being irrational. Of course Jesus is allowed to smile at other people. But when he reaches out to touch her shoulder, and the touch lingers just a tad too long, Judas finds he can no longer bear to watch – and yet he cannot look away.

 _Get out and say hello like a normal person, goddamnit,_ the wiser part of him says. He ignores the voice and dims his headlights, winding down the windows enough to catch the drift of their words.

“We need to catch up properly some time,” the woman is saying. “I need to know if you’re still the same boy I knew in school.”

“And I need to know if you’re the same girl in the school band I had a crush on.”

She laughs. “I doubt it. But let’s find out.”

Something ink-dark and cold slithers around his heart, infecting his insides until they are awash in an icy sensation at odds with the heat creeping up his neck, into his eyeballs, all but blinding him. And yet he can see all too clearly – sees the light in her gaze reflected in his, the way her hand squeezes his shoulder, the casual flitting touches that he makes no effort to shy away from.

“Is your boyfriend coming?”

“Not before ten.”

 _Are they_ scheming? _How long have they been seeing each other? What else has he lied about?_

“You wanna go back inside for a bit? Show me those books of poetry you love…”

It shouldn’t come as such a shock. He’s been burnt before – been cheated on before. But it wasn’t supposed to hurt like this. _Love_ shouldn’t hurt like this.

In the midst of laughing (and he was so beautiful when he laughed) Jesus happens to turn, and those dark eyes meet his and widen – in surprise or in guilt, he doesn’t want to know. Too late, he pulls away from the woman’s grasp. He is walking, then running, towards the car; yet every step seems only to push him further away. His lips form words that Judas can no longer hear as he steps on the pedal and speeds off into the night without a single glance back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of Moulin Rouge's El Tango De Roxanne:  
> "Without trust, there is no love  
> Jealousy! -- yes, jealousy will drive you mad!"
> 
> (don't worry we're not at the end yet)


	5. Beneath a Darkening Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a Fight happens and feelings get aired

“Why did you leave?” The first words he hears when he picks up the phone on the eighth ring.

“You _know_ why.”

“I…I don’t understand.”

_“I saw you together.”_ He wants to say more, but his throat feels hot and clogged up and he is afraid of what will burst forth if he continues talking. So he hangs up.

His phone rings incessantly all night. He doesn’t answer it, knowing there is nothing he can say that will not sound petty and childish. Any argument he could give for his behaviour would unravel messily if picked apart. It’s the sort of mess he doesn’t know how to deal with over the phone. And so he pretends he isn’t there.

Somewhere around midnight, the ringing stops. And yet his troubles have just begun.

All through the night he hovers on the edge of sleep, sinking into brief fits of dreaming that never last more than seconds, but which replay the scene he had fled over and over: of radiant smiles and fingers brushing, of hands meeting in the dark, away from the accusing glare of his headlights. A scene from which he is repeatedly and hopelessly excluded.

When he arrives, the door to the shop is unlocked. Jesus is in the midst of replacing a poster in the display window, looking even more tired than he feels.

“Hey,” he says by way of greeting. There is no response. Jesus walks past him as if he doesn’t exist. He tries to catch a clear glimpse of the face that continually eludes him with a stubbornly averted gaze, a curtain of hair cutting him off like a wall. “There was a new shipment of tapes due since yesterday,” he adds, to fill the silence more than anything. “Do you happen to know – ”

A box is shoved wordlessly in his direction. “Ah. There it is.” He starts to prise open the carton. “You want me to grab us some coffee?”

More silence. He knows it’s the punishment he deserves, and resents it all the more.

It’s somehow even worse when people start trailing into the store and are greeted by the same warmth and ready assistance as if everything was perfectly fine. Judas alone is reduced to a ghost, as if his actions and words are of no consequence. He moves and speaks like a programmed automaton; never mind that customers appear to respond to him normally. Without the small exchanges he both savours yet takes for granted – a touch on the shoulder or arm, a brief whisper, the smile that gives his lungs a reason to breathe – he feels strangely non-existent. Once or twice he finds himself staring at his own hand as if expecting to see right through the flesh and bone.

It rains on and off through the afternoon, the skies as cold and grey as the air between them. Several visitors end up staying longer to wait out the shower; they also end up, thanks to Jesus’ influence, buying twice of what they had set out to acquire. A chatty, mousy-haired girl plonks Bowie’s entire discography on the counter and prattles on cheerfully about something Judas barely hears as he smiles blankly and counts out her change.

Looking at Jesus’ front of professional enthusiasm, one would never guess at the pointed effort he makes to avoid acknowledging his boyfriend’s existence. Whenever they happen to be within each other’s orbit – which, in the small store, is fairly often – he is like a moon that has gone dark, no longer gracing the earth with its glow.

As the day wears on, Judas becomes increasingly scattered and distracted, worn thin by the cold war being waged against him. Finally, about an hour before Jesus’ shift ends, he breaks and reaches out to pull him by the arm into the store room.

“Let go of me!” The fury in Jesus’ voice stuns him, enough for the former to push him away and send him reeling into the wall. Judas manages to grab him before he can leave. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I was being an idiot and a jealous little git. Okay?”

“Jealous…?” The glare that shoots daggers at him is incredulous. “ _Jealous?_ After everything that’s happened between us. You think I’d just…walk away from that? Does all of that mean _nothing?_ ” Jesus is shaking with rage, with hurt, as his hands curl into fists.

“You invited your old flame to your house without telling me, does _that_ mean nothing?”

“I was not aware that I needed your _permission_ to invite people to _my_ place. Clearly I’m not allowed to have had a crush on anyone either. Why don’t I go back in time to change that? Erase everyone from my life who isn’t you. Is that what you want??”

“No – of course not, don’t be stupid – ”

_“I’m not the one being stupid!”_

“I saw you together! Laughing and holding hands! What was I supposed to think?”

“You could have asked!” The tear-filled voice turns icy. “I knew her from when she used to play in our school band. I was asking her if she was keen on being our drummer. But now I’m not sure if I can stand being in the same room with you, never mind the same band.”

“She was flirting with you.” Part of him knows he shouldn’t pursue it. The other part can’t bear to live with doubt.

“For god’s sake, Judas, if you’re going to accuse everyone who smiles in my direction of flirting, we should just clear the whole store right now.”

He turns to walk away. Judas takes hold of his wrist. “Do you still have feelings for her?” Even as his lips form the question, he regrets it, not wanting an answer.

“She’s a friend, and I like her company. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Of course n – ”

“Am I not allowed to have friends now?”

“I didn’t _say_ that.”

“My last few partners had a problem with me being happy with other people. They weren’t satisfied unless I was miserable without them.” Jesus shakes him off like a piece of dirt. “I thought you were different.” His shoulders quiver with the effort of holding back tears. “You made me believe you were different.”

He tries to leave, and Judas makes the mistake of trying to pull him back. They get into a tussle, its intensity growing in anger and hurt and desperation, until a tearing sound fills the small suffocating store room – his persistent grip has torn the seam of Jesus’ shirt sleeve. Then a hard stinging slap hits him in the face, sending him reeling from shock as much as pain.

Jesus blinks rapidly, as if he can’t believe what he’s done. But then his jaw hardens as he backs away. “I’m _not_ sorry,” he hisses.

He grabs his backpack, pushes open the door and runs off into the rain. After a moment’s pause, Judas bolts out the door, running all the way to the bus stop. But there is no sign of Jesus among the few damp passengers huddled beneath the shade. Wet, miserable and furious with himself, he can do nothing but walk back to the store beneath a darkening sky, wondering if he’s lost the only person he ever loved who had loved him fully in return.

*

Jesus doesn’t turn up the next day, which dawns bright and mockingly sunny. Judas wonders if he has quit. His first thought is to call his boss to check. It takes him two unanswered calls to remember that Maureen is out of town for the day. His hand then hovers over the other number he already has memorised, hesitating to dial it.

When he finally does, the beeping tone stretches on and on.

At some point in a day bleaker than any he can remember, he pulls out the crumpled notebook perpetually shoved his back pocket. The thin pages fall open to the last thing he had scrawled in it: lines from a poem, from pages lovingly marked and underlined. Dedicated to a person who is not worthy of their beauty. Everything else that had come before them seems meaningless now.

He carefully tears the page free before chucking the notebook into the bin, where it lies nestled among balled-up receipts and a sandwich wrapper. “Where’s ya boyfriend, mate?” a bearded hippy drawls as he places a small stack of tapes on the counter.

“Ex-boyfriend, more like,” he replies.

“That’s a shame. Place ain’t the same without him.”

“Heard them fighting yesterday,” his friend pipes up. Judas shakes his head. The last thing he needs right now is for his relationship drama to become public knowledge among repeat visitors.

By the time the day ends, he feels drained enough that all he wants is to head home and crash. But there’s someone waiting for him as he locks up.

“We need to talk about your boyfriend.” It’s the bushy-haired woman that Judas now has an irrational dislike for.

“We don’t, because it’s none of your business.”

“It is when he’s sick and miserable because of you.”

He turns and glares her down, but she glares right back, uncowed. “You’ve been reacquainted for what, three days and suddenly you’re his best friend?”

“Two weeks, give or take. Not counting our years in school.”

He knows his suspicion is unjustified, as is the creeping possessiveness that he wishes he could cure himself of. “And you’ve been seeing each other every other day?”

“Every now and then. As friends do.” Her face softens. “Do you know how few friends he has after his previous partner all but cut him off from the world?” She sighs, pulling a pack of Salems from her jacket pocket. “Abusers will do that to you. Happened to me once. Thought you’d know more about his past than me, from the way you go on.”

“I know a little. But clearly you’re hell-bent on making me feel like shit either way.”

“You get what you deserve.”

“Fuck off.”

“Hey.” In response she holds out the pack, a cigarette extended as a sort of peace offering. After some hesitation, he accepts it. It seems in poor taste not to. And he _is_ dying for a smoke.

“What’s your game, woman?”

She lights up and takes a drag. “My name’s Mary. There is no game. If you’re not breaking up, we’ll just have to live with each other now and then. So we might as well start.”

“Why, are you my new boss?”

“I could be your new drummer.”

“What? Oh.” He recalls what Jesus had said during their fight. _But now I’m not sure if I can stand being in the same room with you, never mind the same band._ He sighs.

“If I’m good enough, that is.”

He exhales a long stream of menthol-laced smoke. “You could be John fucking Bonham and it wouldn’t matter. If I can’t convince him to come back…”

“You could try.” She nudges him in the arm, ignoring how he edges away. “Talk to him.”

“I could, but he’s been missing all day. Don’t suppose _you_ know where he is.”

“I do know. He’s at home. Didn’t you hear what I said earlier? He’s on sick leave.”

“He’s what?” The cigarette slips from his fingers. “Shit.”

“He’s not dying or anything, though he sounded like it on the phone. I was there earlier, just to make sure he’s OK.”

“You don’t need to do that,” he says, almost reflexively. She shoots him that challenging look again. “There you go again – being jealous.”

“I’m _not_ – ” His fingers curl in a gesture of frustration, knowing she’s not wrong. “I’ll head over now, though I seriously doubt he’ll let me in.”

“You could let yourself in.”

He stares at her quizzically as she purses her lips and then says, “I hope I can trust you with these.” She fishes around in her bag; there is a faint jingling sound before her hand emerges with a set of keys. She pushes it into his hand.

“How come you have keys to his apartment?”

“I thought of moving some of my stuff in a bit earlier. We had a copy made so I could come and go without bothering him, since he’s working most days.” Mary shrugs. “I was also gonna help him move his things to your place. If, you know, that’s still happening.”

“Yeah…about that.” He kicks ruefully at a stray bit of gravel. “I don’t know either.”

“Only one way to find out.” She finishes her cigarette and stamps it out. “I need to head off to work now. If you need to find me, I’m bartending at The Temple – just three blocks away.”

“I’ll make a note to avoid it.”

She grins and shakes her head. “Whatever he see in you, I can’t wait to find out.”

“Makes two of us.”

She lays a hand on his shoulder, and this time he doesn’t pull away. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

  
He finds himself turning the key in the lock slowly, in the manner of a philandering husband who is attempting to get in undetected. Part of the guilt stems from the feeling that he should not be here; that he is somehow trespassing.

The open door reveals a direct line of sight to the living area, and there is no hiding from its resident, who is curled up on the sofa under a faded quilt blanket with a book in hand. The hint of a smile is quickly replaced by a less welcoming expression. “What are _you_ doing here?” The tired, raspy voice is at odds with his glare.

“Didn’t know you were sick. You didn’t call all day.”

“Well. You’re not exactly in the habit of answering calls, are you?”

“Alright, fine. I deserve that.”

Jesus’ next words are drowned in a wave of coughs that sends tremors through his entire frame. Judas kneels beside the couch and rubs his back till they die down and he falls back in exhaustion onto the mound of pillows that Judas imagines Mary thoughtfully arranging as she fusses over him, her hair and whispers of concern brushing his forehead. He makes an effort to quell the green-eyed monster rearing its fangs. _Not everything revolves around you, dipshit._

“I wouldn’t have come without your friend's blessing. She gave me the keys - I didn't twist her arm."

“You needn’t have come. I don’t need watching twenty-four seven.”

“Wanted to see if you needed anything.”

“I don’t.”

“And to apologize for being a stupid git.”

Jesus bites his lip and doesn’t say anything as Judas picks up the book he had dropped during his coughing fit. It’s a rather thick paperback: _The Tale of Genji_ by Murasaki Shibiku.

“One of the world’s first novels,” says Jesus, seeing him scan the title and cover art. “There are several English translations; this is one of the better versions. I’ve been hunting it down for years.”

Judas skims the summary at the back before handing it back to him. “Sounds like heavy stuff.”

“I have an abridged version too, but it doesn’t capture the spirit of the original.” Jesus huffs in complaint. “You’ve made me lose my page. Is there a bookmark somewhere on the floor?”

Judas obliges by sliding a hand beneath the couch. His fingers meet a piece of smooth leather and he fishes it out, running his fingers over the intricate embossed designs. “This is nice.”

“I have several. On the kitchen counter, far left. Feel free to take one on your way out.”

“Still trying to get rid of me, huh.”

The dark stare returns. “I still can’t believe you honestly thought I was cheating on you. After everything that happened between us.” He folds his arms, curling away from Judas’ touch. “And it meant nothing to you.”

“It means _everything_ to me. That’s the problem.”

He sits up in outrage. “Problem? What we have is a _problem?_ ”

“That’s _not_ I was referring to – will you stop twisting everything I say?”

The feverish eyes turn cold. “You came here to apologize. You’ve done that. Now you can go.”

Judas rises, but stays rooted to the spot until the Murasaki novel hits him square in the face. “Ow – fuck!”

“Get out!” Pale from the exertion, he collapses back onto the pillow after a few more phlegm-filled coughs.

“Do you have meds for that? Sounds nasty.”

Jesus rolls his eyes in exasperation and ignores Judas for about four seconds before giving in with a sigh. “On the counter. Next to the bookmarks. Get me some water while you’re there.”

“Why do you have bookmarks in the kitchen, anyway?” 

“Are you here to help or not?”

Judas walks to the open kitchen area, spending some time just looking for a mug. After scanning the blue-tiled wall, he finds a row of them hanging off some wooden hooks. He can’t help noticing what a picturesque space it is; despite the compact size, Jesus has clearly put quite a bit of love into it. Unlike the charmingly chaotic shelves in the living room, everything here is coordinated just enough to create a pleasing ambience without sliding into stiff showroom territory. He envisions that spice rack hanging in his own kitchen, and feels a painful twinge at the possibility that Jesus might refuse to move in. If the man leaves him now, there would be a large Jesus-shaped gap in his life that he hasn’t the faintest idea how to fill.

_Again – not everything is about you, dumbass. Get over yourself._

As he is filling the mug with water, a silvery shaft of light catches his eye. He looks up to see a skylight window in the high ceiling that lends the narrow space a lofty air. Beyond the glass, a full, perfect pearl of a moon is glowing.

The same moonlight filters through the windows and illuminates Jesus’ sleeping face as he returns, cool silver mingling with the yellow-gold of the nearby lamp’s halo. He can’t decide whether to wake him or not. Mary would likely prod him awake while brushing aside complaints with the brusque yet friendly air of a no-nonsense nurse. Somehow he can’t find it in himself to summon such an air, so instead he places the water and pills on the coffee table and adjusts the blanket and cushions. Doing so reminds him of the first time their lives had collided: Jesus asleep on his couch, looking almost as worn out as he does now, albeit without the wan complexion and slightly laboured breathing. And still as beautiful as ever.

He picks up the book that had been chucked at his head and is faintly amused at the thought that it’s fitting punishment for not sufficiently appreciating the first one he had been gifted. Hopefully it’s not a mistake he’ll make again.

Eventually he falls asleep with _The Tale of Genji_ in his hand, seated on the floor, leaning against the couch base. In some strange amorphous dream, the painted woodblock characters on the novel’s cover art come to life and speak to him in an archaic tongue against the delicate strumming of a shamisen. Then their exquisitely formed syllables melt into a strange and frantic whine, punctuated by coughing that grows in volume. He jerks awake when he realises the sound is coming from above him. Jesus is tossing feebly against his heap of pillows, trying to find a position that will let more air into his lungs.

Judas’ first reaction is to panic and possibly haul him to the nearest hospital, before he realises the man is already conscious, eyelids fluttering fitfully as he turns onto his side. “Are you alright, or should I call an ambulance?” Judas mutters while picking up the scattered cushions on the floor.

“I’m fine,” comes the hoarse murmured reply.

“You’re full of shit is what you are.”

Jesus ignores his caustic words and rubs his chest as if trying to massage more air into it. Judas is suddenly reminded of something one of his babysitters did when he was a small, asthmatic child – one of the many faceless women who had come and gone as they gave up on the difficult boy who was sullen one moment and clingy the next. One night, when he had been unable to sleep from a mild attack that was still intensely uncomfortable, the babysitter had kneaded something that smelt of menthol into his chest all night until his lungs decided to work again and he fell asleep. (The next day she was gone, and he never got to thank her.)

“Do you have any of that menthol or camphor stuff in the house? Some kind of ointment?”

“No, I – wait. I might. Haven’t used it in years. I don’t know if it’s good anymore.”

“Tell me where it is.”

His breaths are growing shallower; a painful cough or two escapes his throat. “Bedroom. The dresser. Top drawer…right or left, I can’t remember.”

Judas feels vaguely guilty for having to invade the sanctity of this new territory. The modest space is occupied by a queen-sized bed and seasoned wooden furnishings with nice antique touches like ornate brass handles, including the chest of drawers Jesus must be referring to. He pulls open both the top drawers and fishes around in them, relieved that they contain nothing of an overly intimate nature, until he finds a flat round metal container with a sharp, familiar smell even before he opens it.

He crouches by the sofa and waves aside Jesus’ attempts to take the container from him. Another fit of coughing robs him of any fight as Judas’ hand slides beneath his loose sweater top and rubs the ointment into his chest. Despite his resistance, his relief is palpable; within moments the tightness fades from the corners of his mouth, the stiffness from his shoulders. Once or twice he looks to be on the verge of saying something. He never does, closing his eyes instead. Judas doesn’t mind. It’s easier this way.

He has to lean in close to get the ointment in properly, sliding the sweater upward to reveal an expanse of olive-hued skin that looks gold in the dim light. The ribs are more visible than they should be, as if he’s not been eating well of late, but still the sight is a tempting one. Under less pressing circumstances, Judas would be drawn to trace each dip and curve and hint of taut muscle with his lips, to make Jesus groan and cling to him in pleasure, demanding more. Even now, there is a hint of what might have been: the movements on his fingers are soothing, and Jesus sighs and arches into his touch, perhaps without even meaning to.

“Feel better now?”

“Mmm.” A soft exhalation of relief tickles his face.

After a few minutes, Jesus slowly melts into the pillows as his breathing evens out and the peaceful sleep from earlier creeps back into his face. Judas feels somewhat drained himself by the time he’s done. He pulls the blanket back over Jesus before sinking back to his former position against the sofa base. It’s not the most comfortable position, but he can’t bring himself to care. Despite the anxieties chewing away at his mind – from immediate concern for Jesus to the uncertainty of their future together – he slips eventually into the land of the dreaming, where guitars with faces are talking to him in electric whines, trying to tell him something unfathomable yet important.


	6. The End and the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am almost sad to see this come to an end. But also incredibly happy to bring it to the closing that I wanted all along. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Morning finds him with his cheek against the hardwood, stiff and cold and disoriented. Somewhere during the night he had slid from his upright position into an awkwardly foetal slump on the floor. It takes a few seconds to remember where he is and why he’s not currently occupying the comfort of his own bed.

Grunting and slowly stretching his limbs, he wonders if Jesus – who looks to be soundly and blissfully asleep – would begrudge him some coffee. Then he realises with a start that it’s a Wednesday. “Shit.” A glance at the clock tells him he’ll only be an hour late to work, if he skips a shower. He stumbles around for a bit looking for the phone until he finds it amid a clutter of woodcarving tools on one of the shelves. Unlike the coordinated kitchen and the relatively tidy bedroom, the living area has a somewhat haphazard nature, albeit in a way that manages to be aesthetically pleasing.

Maureen picks up after the third ring, meaning she was already awake. “H’lo?”

“Hey, Moe.”

“Hi, Jude. You’re gonna be late today or what?”

“How did you – ”

“You never call in the morning unless something’s up.”

“Yeah. Uh, sorry, it’s been a rough night.” Jesus had woken him again during the wee hours with another worrying episode while insisting he didn’t need a hospital, and Judas had been compelled to stay up kneading his back and more of the camphor rub into his chest and neck until he calmed down. “Jesus isn’t well. I’ve been at his place all night.”

“Oh.” Concern sharpened her voice. “Is he better now? You still with him?”

“Yeah, I am. He’s sleeping it off. Pretty sure he’s not going to die.”

“Maybe you should stay with him and make sure of that.”

“You sure?”

“I think I can handle things for a day. The boy works himself too hard. He needs someone to take care of him.”

He can barely bite back a sigh. “Not sure I’m the best person for that.”

There is a knowing pause on the other end. “Is everything OK with you guys?”

“I don’t know, Moe. I really don’t.”

“Well. Try to be good to each other. And let me know if you need to, y’know, talk.”

“Thanks, Moe, but you’re not my therapist. You don’t have to take this shit.”

She chuckles. “See you tomorrow, then. Hopefully Jesus too. But _not_ till he’s well again.”

“I’ll tell him that. Thanks a load.”

Jesus is stirring when he puts down the receiver, long enough to murmur something in a half-dream before sinking back down into slumber. Judas reaches down to brush aside a stray lock of hair from his face, wanting to do much more, but reluctant to wake him.

He slips into the kitchen, looking for a good minute at the espresso machine and pondering the wisdom of attempting to operate it. This is followed by opening various cabinet doors looking for an instant coffee alternative before giving up. If Jesus is still mad at him, intruding upon the contents of his cupboards is unlikely to improve things. After dousing his face in cold water at the sink, which helps a bit in waking him up, he returns to the living room where something half-tucked away behind one of the bookshelves catches his eye.

The folk guitar is coated with a fine layer of dust, as if it’s not been touched in a while. After giving it a rough wipe, he tests the nylon strings and fiddles with the knobs. It sounds surprisingly good after sufficient tuning, filling the room with its vibrant warmth. He strums a few chords, trying to recreate the melody the two of them had made back in his garage studio.

“…and in love I was too hasty,” he sings, “in needing you to please me.”

The lines that came before are patchy and missing bits and pieces, having been relegated to the bin of forgetfulness and discarded receipts. But he does remember most of the last stanza. He had written it the day after that blissful night of cheap pizza and cheaper wine, and falling asleep with Jesus’ head on his chest.

“It’s my turn to be the one pleading  
To bear the sorrow with the love  
If we both have to end up bleeding,  
Just to be with you is enough.”

He looks up to see Jesus awake, watching him with a startlingly naked look of tenderness that he makes only a half-hearted attempt to hide. “Is there more to it?” he asks in a voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Not yet. Maybe you can write the rest. If…” He looks away, unable to meet Jesus’ eyes.

Silence hangs between them for a while before Jesus speaks. “I don’t want to lose you.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, but every syllable is clear in the quiet air. “I know you did and said all that because you feel the same.”

“But it doesn’t give me a free pass to be an asshole. I know.”

Jesus bites his lower lip in the way that Judas is so fond of. It seems there are a hundred things he needs to say, and none that he wants to. Finally he pushes the blanket aside and rises, somewhat shakily, from the sofa. Judas is on his feet in a blink.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m hungry.”

Judas puts an arm around his waist, which he attempts to brush off. “I’m not an invalid, you know.” In a bid to prove his lack of need for help, he walks a little too forcefully ahead before stumbling and catching the edge of the counter dividing the kitchen from the living room. Judas puts an arm around him. “You were saying?”

“Shut up.” He blinks dizzily as he perches on one of the bar-style chairs, making Judas’ heart jump with concern. “Have you eaten anything since yesterday?”

He frowns and tries to remember. “Not since morning. Couldn’t stomach anything.”

Judas looks around till his gaze lands on a half-full jar of cookies. He pushes them across the counter. “Are these any good?”

“They should be. I made them.”

“I need to taste them, then.”

Jesus pulls the jar away. A rare playful spark lights up his eyes. “Aren’t you going to make some actual breakfast?”

“I’m not gonna attempt to cook eggs in an unfamiliar kitchen.”

Jesus gives a soft, mocking huff. “How hard can eggs be?”

“Not everyone is blessed with culinary skills on demand.” Judas pulls back the jar, initiating a half-baked tussle that ends in their lips meeting, kissing hungrily as if kisses alone could feed them. Judas slides a hand behind Jesus’ back, another clasping his neck. “You shouldn’t,” Jesus murmurs, making no attempt to pull away. “I might make you sick too.”

“You already did. You’re disgusting, I don’t know why I’m with you.” He grins as Judas leans in for another kiss.

He doesn’t ask about the guitar until after they empty the whole jar of cookies (which are indeed amazing) in lieu of a proper meal, and he figures out what the numerous buttons and levers on the coffee machine is for while complaining mildly about machines complicating a simple drink.

“It’s a beautiful instrument,” he remarks. “I was wondering if it’s the same one you…the same as...”

“The guitar I stole? Yes, it is.”

“I’m sorry. Probably shouldn’t have asked.”

This time there are no shadows dimming his eyes. “It’s alright. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it, but…” He shrugged. “It doesn’t mean what it used to. Not anymore.”

Judas savours the aroma of the dark brew, made from a custom blend he suspects Jesus spent far too much on. “That Fender you were playing the other day,” he says. “You should have it. Feels like it was made for you.”

“Even if I decide not to be in the band…?”

“Fuck the band. It’s not that important.”

“But it _is._ I know what it means to you.” Jesus reaches out to take his hand. “Please don’t give it up for me. Or anyone.”

When he doesn’t say anything, Jesus presses on. “I’ve only seen you play once, but it’s…enthralling. You have something special. If you do give it up, do it because you want to. Not because you’re afraid of losing someone.”

Judas squeezes his hand back. “I can’t even imagine existing without you.”

“And I’ll be there. No matter what.” He shakes his head. “I used to think love meant giving up bits of yourself, and look where that got me.”

He makes a compelling point. Judas is not used to losing arguments, and settles for silence as he takes another swig of the coffee. “This is good stuff,” he says. “I’m stealing some, just so you know.”

“You won’t have to once I move in.”

Judas’ heart skips a beat. “You mean that?”

The half-smile he loves so much appears. “You’d better make way for at least one of my bookshelves.”

They end up spending a good part of the day going through Jesus’ extensive collection as he tries to decide which books he intends to move and which should be left for Mary to keep or dispose of as she wishes. For a bibliophile, he is remarkably disorganised, as Judas remarks – there is no rhyme and reason to where various categories and authors go. Stacking books into boxes turns out to be a more strenuous task than expected, especially when Judas insists on doing all the heavy lifting. “You do _not_ need two copies of the same book,” he grumbles loudly at one point.

“I told you, they’re _not_ the same. One is the limited edition hardcover.”

“You have half a box of nothing but ‘limited edition’ repeats of existing books. And I have limited shelf space.”

“They are not repeats! Some of them have additional appendices, or variations in the accompanying illustrations.”

“Right. Appendices.” Judas has to refrain from rolling his eyes. “I suggest we leave them behind and you can come visit them occasionally.”

In response, Jesus becomes withdrawn and sulky for the next half hour until he relents.

When they're finally done and three sizeable cartons are filled to the brim, Judas wipes his brow with a sigh of accomplishment and unthinkingly pulls off his sweat-dampened t-shirt. “Don’t suppose I can use your shower,” he says. When there is no response, he turns to see Jesus staring at him quite unabashedly – eyes trailing over the lean curves of his waist, the tattoos encircling his upper arms. Only when he realises Judas is staring back does he avert his gaze, a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Was I imagining that, or do you like what you see?”

A slow-blooming blush darkens his neck and cheeks as his eyes flick back upwards and he says, in a soft low voice: “I like it very much.”

As Judas approaches, the leather-bound volume he is holding slips from his hands and he spills a small sound of want just before their lips meet. Jesus sighs as he runs his hands over Judas’ naked shoulders and back, his breath heavy with lust. Judas feels a warmth and growing firmness pressing against his hips. His own arousal is sudden and just as strong. When he lifts Jesus right off the floor and carries him to the bedroom, the latter doesn’t protest, but clings contentedly to him. They partake in each other’s nakedness with a deliberate leisure that intensifies the pleasure of what lies ahead. Judas is delighted to find a small tattoo resting on Jesus’ right hipbone of two fishes with intertwined bodies.

“It was an impulsive decision,” Jesus says as Judas traces the lines of the swirling tails. “I was about twenty-one.”

“Was it shortly after a breakup?”

“How did you guess?”

“Hmm. At least one good thing came out of it.” He kisses the rise of the hipbone that coincides with the flecks of water flowing around the fishes. “Are you a Pisces, then?”

“A Libra, actually.”

His hand slides lower, teasing and stroking, until Jesus arches into his touch impatiently and pleads for him not to stop, each cry more exquisitely ragged than the last. He feels a hand caressing his own sex, sending a new jolt of warmth between his legs so sharp it hurts. Before long they are a mess of sweaty limbs melting into each other until it is difficult, in the white-hot throes of love, to feel where one ends and the other begins. Jesus’ legs hook around him and cling tightly as if his life depends on it. Judas responds by entangling his fingers in that mess of ink-dark hair as one orgasm chases another. They hold each other tight before the last of the tremors subside and they collapse, sated and mindless, into the weight of flesh and bone soft with bliss.

An indeterminate stretch of time passes before Judas realises he has fallen asleep half-draped over Jesus, who is also soundly slumbering. The latter’s skin feels slightly cold to the touch. Roused to alertness by concern, he pulls the blanket over the sleeping form, which slowly stirs to life some minutes later.

“We probably shouldn’t have done that,” Judas mutters, yet unable to fully regret it.

The dark lashes flutter as a frown forms above them. “Why? Was it…not what you wanted…?”

“ _No,_ stupid, it was amazing. But you’re not well yet.”

Relieved and assured, Jesus’ eyelids fall back shut. “Mmm. I feel better than I’ve felt in years.”

“If you say so.”

Judas pulls him close and presses a trail of kisses into his shoulders, the back of his neck, as he makes small squirming sounds of pleasure. “I’ve been wondering,” he murmurs against the smooth tan skin, which is reassuringly warm again. “Is your shower stall big enough for two?”

Jesus arches and stretches until the curve of their bodies meet. “Let’s find out.”

Judas has never entertained the thought of bathing with any of his numerous partners, and being in the shower with someone is a fascinating new experience. While exploring the erotic possibilities of scented soap, he soon finds out that massaging it into Jesus’ shoulders makes the latter all but melt. The sounds that spill from the eagerly parted lips are almost unholy. Judas, unbearably aroused, pushes Jesus face-first against the tiled wall and grinds like an animal in heat against the inviting cleft of that pert bottom until his spilt seed mingles with the foamy soap trails running down the lithe thighs. Jesus brings himself to orgasm in tandem with his thrusts and collapses against him with a sigh. They slide as one to the floor, making the space even tighter, holding each other as the warm rush of water rains down on them and washes away the traces of their lovemaking.

They end up in matching faded band t-shirts, which makes Judas think of all the times he had made fun of couples for dressing alike…as well as the moment Jesus had appeared wearing his shirt, in a reverse scenario that in hindsight seems predestined. He enjoys small yet pleasing discoveries such as the smell of Jesus’ freshly washed hair. The lingering scent of chamomile mingled with something vaguely citrusy makes Judas want to strip him bare and fuck him again – properly this time. He voices his thoughts out loud and is rewarded with a blush and a coy grin full of future promise.

Hungry after their exertions, they raid Jesus’ fridge for microwaveable leftovers as Judas braves the stove and frying pan. A pile of moussaka and half a loaf of garlic bread are complemented by misshapen lumps of egg Judas insists are passable omelettes, even as Jesus teases him mercilessly.

“At least they’re edible,” Judas says as he shoves a forkful into his mouth.

“Almost anything is ‘edible’ if you’re brave enough.”

“So you’re a coward. Nothing I can do about that.” Jesus kicks him lightly in the shin.

“What do you want to call the band?” ask Judas as they clean the last scraps from the plates.

“I don’t know. You decide. You’re the founder, after all.”

“Technically. But…"

“But what?”

He slides his hand into Jesus’, their fingers interlocking. “Feels like it started with you. When you crashed into my life.”

“More like you crashed into mine.” Jesus kisses the hand locked in his, brushing each knuckle with his lips. “My life felt like an out-of-control train until it hit yours.”

“That’s funny. It feels like you set mine in motion. Like I was in some sort of stasis before.” He looks into the wide dark eyes that were full of ghosts when he had first gazed into them, and now gaze back at him with the bright tenderness of a steady candleflame. In those eyes he finds the words of an ancient poet reflected back at him. _You are the road, and the knower of roads._ The end and the beginning.

“I’ll make coffee if you do the dishes,” Jesus offers.

“Deal.”

*

When they arrive at the store the next morning, Judas is initially startled to find his dog-eared notebook lying on the cashier counter, as if it had done so of its own volition instead of disappearing with the last garbage disposal. He finds a note attached to it.

 _Did you write these? They’re pretty damn good. I have half a mind to make a copy and mail them to Lou, if you’re not using them. Also, I’m just gonna assume this ended up in the trash by accident. You’re welcome._ _– Moe_

He flips through the pages, trying to read what he had written during the past months through her eyes. Perhaps it was simply the new surge of warmth setting his heart alight, but some of the scribblings were not as bad as he had thought. Someday he’ll surely thank Maureen for saving them from an untimely death.

He pauses on one of the pages as a spark goes off in his head, and grabs a pen to revise and add on to lyrics he can’t remember writing but suddenly has a tune for. He alternates tapping out a rhythm on the counter with noting guitar chords beside each stanza while singing snatches of words beneath his breath. _“The taste of pain / Left me wanting more. Your love is my gain / But what is it for?”_

The stretch of hours post noon sees a lull in business as a street festival two blocks away draws most of their potential customers. Judas takes advantage of the free time to sneak a quick sketch of Jesus that turns into a more detailed drawing than he had intended. Lost in adding texture and shadow, he doesn’t realise his subject is watching until it pushes aside his hair to land a kiss on the back of his neck. The sensation sends divine tingles up and down his spine.

“”That’s very flattering. Must be the lighting here.”

“Don’t be silly. I only depict the truth.”

“Mmm. I don’t suppose you’d like the whole truth.”

“And nothing _but_ the truth?”

The deepening smile that mirrors his is all the answer he needs.

“Tilt your face a little more. Towards the light.”

“Ugh. Now my hair is in the way.”

“No – don’t touch it. It’s perfect.” Judas’ pencil is already flying across the paper, capturing the expanse of bare skin, the perfectly placed angles and curves, as if afraid their softness will disappear. As all beautiful things surely do.

“Are you sure about the book?”

“You’d rather it not be there?”

Jesus bites back a laugh, trying not to nudge the strategically placed hardcover. “It seems rather…disrespectful of such a classic.”

“It’s printed words on paper. You’re not making Dickens himself suck your cock. Although I would love to draw that.”

Another laugh. Jesus doesn’t object any further, but meets his eyes as he requests, that gaze full of infinite tenderness looking into his very soul.

After a while, the gaze wanders to the wall behind him. “How long have you been collecting those vinyls? Are they all rare items?”

“Most of them are. I really should put them in a proper glass shelf. Just never got around to buying one.” He finishes outlining the body draped across his sofa and moves to the face, giving care to the depth of the dark-lashed eyes. “When I was collecting them, I was also spending too much on guitars.”

“They’ll be worth it, in the end.”

“Bloody hope so.”

He shifts slightly, nudging the shadows that fall across his lips. Judas holds up the hand that isn’t busy drawing. “Don’t move.”

“How much longer do I have to stay still? My left leg is starting to cramp.”

“I don’t know how else to tell you this, but art requires some degree of suffering.”

“Hmph. And are _you_ suffering enough?”

“I have to put up with your complaining, don’t I?” He can’t help grinning at the endearing pout that follows. “And don’t sulk till I’m done with your face.”

The tip of his charcoal pencil starts shading in a few key areas, including the dip in the pelvis that leads to the faint shadow of dark hair disappearing beneath the cream-coloured pages. He fiddles with the tricky area for a bit, erasing and redrawing, before looking up with a thoughtful frown.

“Actually…do you mind _not_ including the book?”

“You mean replacing it with another?”

“I mean removing it.”

He blushes a little, prompting Judas to darken the cheekbones on his charcoal likeness to capture the lovely effect. “I don’t know.” He slowly slides the hardcover aside. “Do I still look alright?” he asks almost shyly, as if they hadn’t already made love twice.

“You look perfect. It was blocking your tattoo.”

“Oh.”

“You did promise me the whole truth, and nothing but.”

The smile returns, warm and teasing. “Have you ever drawn any of your partners before?”

“No.”

“Not even with their clothes on?”

“I did a portrait of one of them. Only because she paid me.”

“Hmm. And what payment will you ask of me?”

“A blowjob. A good one, not some half-assed thing. With plenty of tongue.”

The appealing flush returns, more intense this time. “I’ve never been very good at it. You’ll have to teach me.”

There is a sudden tightening in the crotch area of Judas’ jeans at the very thought. Only the knowledge that the future holds time enough to explore all manner of carnal pleasures prevents him from throwing his sketchpad aside and ‘educating’ his subject there and then. His rush of arousal is interrupted by the ringing phone. Jesus rises with a start.

“I forgot,” he exclaimed. “Mary said she would call to – ”

“Yeah, I remember.” Judas picks up the phone. “Is this the house of Jesus’ boyfriend, or have I reached the wrong number?” greets the voice on the other end.

“Auditions are closed, come back tomorrow.”

“I know it’s tomorrow. I was calling to confirm. Is Jesus OK? Can I speak to him?”

“He’s fine. He’s also naked.” Jesus makes a small sound of protest and reflexively covers himself with a cushion, as if expecting Mary to materialise in Judas’ living room.

She chuckles. “Is he? That must mean you’ve kissed and made up.”

“Did a bit more than that.”

“Huh. Like what exactly?”

“Nice try.” He hangs up.

“You _will_ be nice to her, won’t you?” Jesus asks, with just a touch of worry.

“Nice is a subjective word. And your friend can take care of herself fine. She’s a bit scary, to be honest.” He walks toward the sofa. “Now, where were we? Something about payment?”

Jesus chucks the cushion at him indignantly. “Not till the drawing’s complete.”

**~**

**EPILOGUE / SIX MONTHS LATER**

The ambiguously named 1-20 is not visible from the street of its address save for a small rectangle of reddish light peeking out from a sliding window. Ringing the discreetly placed doorbell summons the appearance of a smoky-eyed woman with a sharp black bob who will open the narrow door wordlessly except on Wednesdays, when a password is required. (How one obtains it is known only to the regulars.)

Only after you have passed the second, even narrower door will you hear the first subdued snatches of chatter that grow louder as you traverse a corridor lit with paper lanterns. Near the end of the corridor is a closed-off chamber to your left, open only for private events. But you are not here for that; or you have not been invited. So you go onward, following the sound of drumbeats. There is a live performance tonight. There always is, about once a week, usually on a Friday. Occasionally a famous name will grace the sign hanging over the entrance announcing the night’s entertainment. More often than not, the sort of musicians you will see are relative unknowns – but not just anyone gets into the 1-20. Those who are invited back a second time almost inevitably attain success. The pleasantly stimulating buzz in the air comes from patrons who are gathered to witness potential superstars in the making.

It is not a large place at all; the atmosphere is intimate, the bartender calling regulars by nicknames based on their favourite cocktails. The air smells vaguely of wood and whisky and incense. You may find a seat if the almost-full bar and tables can spare one, or stand in a corner. You will find that you’re hardly alone, especially when you start swaying to the music.

The circular space is dimly lit with neon and tungsten save for the brighter lamps overhanging the small stage that is just accommodating enough for the three band members plus one session keyboardist occupying it. A good part of the platform is taken up by the drums; the woman behind them is banging out a steady rhythm, hair flying with the enthusiasm of her movements. Her beat becomes the backbone of the electric chords emerging from the lead guitarist: all piercing eyes and lithe movements, lean muscle wrapped in a tight t-shirt and jeans. Opposite him, the bassist coaxes low seductive notes from the instrument he holds like a lover. Their voices find each other over the hypnotic melody, slinking and slicing through the thick air.

 _“The taste of pain  
_ _left me wanting more  
Your love is my gain  
But what is it for?  
There’s nothing to mend,  
Nothing left to do  
but start again with you.”  
_

Soft synth notes from the keyboardist creep in, adding texture to the rich guitar licks. The two frontmen lock eyes as if their words – though reaching to the back of the room – are meant first and foremost for each other.

 _"If it’s not ice, it’s fire;  
_ _Is that your game?  
Tell me your desires  
Tell me your name  
Bring me back  
To the beginning:  
A world without end"  
_

The crowd is thrumming with energy by the time the song draws to a close. With a crash of cymbals, the drummer brings the backbeat to an end, leaving only the fading electric notes of the two guitars and two voices making love beneath the stage lights.

_Bring me to my death,_   
_Let me start again:_   
_A world without end."_

_~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) I casually mentioned to Saffiaan the vague thought of including a "draw me like one of your French girls" scene in this chapter, and she was so enthusiastic about the idea I just had to.
> 
> (2) The hidden bar in the Epilogue is based very loosely on a place I've been to (from which I also derived the name -- pronounced "one twenty") and augmented with details I made up.


End file.
